But a serious problem loomed, the source of his worry. Alistair had partially solved it by first housing Dragonfly apart but in proximity of one another. They were to be lodged in the Latin Quarter, located on the left bank of the River Seine. Paris was a city of quartiers, in ancient days called hamlets, today called arrondissements, another name for the city’s twenty government administrative districts. These districts are like villages made up of close neighborhoods. Residents seen talking together, passing on the street, taking the same streetcars, waiting on the same corner, frequenting the same cafés and markets should not rouse suspicion.

To convey their intel to Bridgette for transmission to Bern, Alistair with great reservations had assigned the other four a mutual dead-letter box, a secret hiding place to leave messages. It was a mail slot in the door of an OSS rented house connected to the courtyard wall of the convent next door. There had been no way around using a single collection point. If their dead boxes were scattered around the Latin Quarter, Bridgette would be limited to only one pickup daily sandwiched between her departure from work and the evening curfew. Inevitable problems like heavy traffic, transportation snafus, weather conditions, especially in winter, and delays at work would make it impossible for her to do her job in timely fashion.

Alistair had made clear the danger of a common drop to the team. If one member was caught and made to talk, the others could be rounded up when they dropped off their intel, and Bridgette when she collected the material, but with their usual verve, all had seen the sense of his reasoning and agreed that the convenience of a mutual location outweighed the risks involved. The team did not know that behind the convent wall was their radio operator’s lodgings. Bridgette would check the floor beneath the mail slot in the morning before leaving for La Maison de Boucher and in the evening after her return to the convent.

Only Bridgette possessed a key to the door. The property was empty except for bolts of fabrics, design sketches, drawing materials, a sewing machine, wire dress forms, a cutting table, and several chairs, all subterfuge to explain the reason for her visits. The house was simply an additional workroom for the House of Boucher, where Bridgette, a newly hired designer, sometimes did sewing for customers after working hours. The callus on her right index finger bore out her claim.